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SENSE AND INCENSE

BY PRESENT ETONIANS

DEDICATION.

To H.M.

TRUE son of Eton, you who stand A guardian to her golden store,

To guide her torch from hand to hand, In Peace a Happy Warrior.

You loved the glories which endure Of all those Grecian glories gone ;

You loved the strong, the sane, the pure, And love the more to hand them on.

You saw the vision glorious

And strove to bring that vision true, To have your Eton live in us,

As all our Eton lives in you.

Seeing not only all the best,

But thinking not a worse can be,

And blest as only they are blest,

Who dare the strength of trust to see.

We have not skill nor fame to boast : You are a poet ; you have known

What first we sing we prize the most, So take this from us, for your own.

D. s, B.

DEDICATION.

To H.M.

SINCE you gave us, sir, to know

All the Muses' golden store, And a treasure rich did shew,

Hidden from our souls before.

Since in long past days of peace You spread forth before our gaze

Wonder-working things of Greece, Filling us with glad amaze.

We, in these hard days of war,

Turn a little back our eyes For the things we loved before

Still our anxious souls must prize.

We this little garland bring

To your feet, and pray you " take," Not for worth of that we sing,

But for Mother Eton's sake.

C. J. S. S.

CONTENTS.

PAGE

Three Dedications .. ..

VICTOR TAIT PEROWNE—

A Dirge I

Founder's Ode . . . . . . . . . . 3

Two Sonnets 5

A Picture . . . . . . . . . . . . 7

To Cecilia 9

RICHARD DICKINSON—

After the French of Estienne de la Boetie .. 10

FRANCIS BISHOP—

Fancy .. n

ARTHUR RHYS-DAVIDS—

In Memoriam .. .. 12

Thoughts . . . . . . . . . . 14

Lines on Hearing Beethoven's " Moonlight " Sonata 15

H. G. M.—

To R. W 17

Death .. 18

PAGE

CECIL SPRIGGE—

On an Early Morning Funeral in Amiens Cathedral 19

Beggars in Lyonesse. I . . . . 20

II 21

Le Suicide 22

Lines .. 23

The Home-Coming. I. .. .. .. ..24

II 25

In Memoriam .. .. 26

ANON.—

Literary Fancies .. .. .. .. ..28

Summer . . . . . . . . . . . . 29

My Home . . . . . . . . . . . . 30

PERCY MARYON-WILSON—

Requiescam . . . . . . . . . . . . 31

Nee quae praeterit hora redire potest . . . . 32

THORVALD CAROE—

Beatus ille 33

ANON.—

The Prisoner .. .. .. 34

Life 35

DENIS S. BUXTON—

Vale 36

A DIRGE.

THOU art no longer here.

No longer shall we see thy face,

But, in that other place,

Where may be heard

The roar of the world rushing down the want-ways of

the stars ; And the silver bars Of Heaven's gate Shine soft, and clear : Thou mayest wait.

No longer shall we see

Thee walking in the crowded streets,

But where the ocean of the Future beats

Against the floodgates of the Present, swirling to this

earth.

Another birth Thou mayest have ; Another Arcady May thee receive.

Not here thou dost remain,

Thou art gone far away,

Where, at the portals of the day,

The hours ever dance in ring, a silvern-footed throng,

While Time looks on,

And seraphs stand

Choiring an endless strain

On either hand.

Thou canst return no more ;

Not as the happy time of spring

Comes after winter burgeoning

On wood and wold in folds of living green, for thou art

dead.

Our tears we shed In vain, for thou Dost pace another shore, Untroubled now.

FOUNDER'S ODE.

O SCHOLAR SAINT, who wore fair England's crown,

And found it wrought of thorn, O royal founder, come from Heaven down

On this thy natal morn To tread these cloister courts, where thou shalt find

Thou didst not live in vain. Not to no purpose did thy pious mind

Design this fair domain. Not to no purpose was thy sinless life

Liv'd amid clash of arms. A man of peace wast thou, for all thy strife

And all dread war's alarms. Thy life to all a failure seemed, no ray

From fickle fortune shone — Gone was thy Kingdom, vanish'd in a day,

Thy royal power, gone. So in the gloomy Tower wert thou cast,

And darksome was the night, And long and sad and weary to be passed . Until the morning light. The longest nights must have a dawn, and so

At dawn thy spirit fled, And up beyond this weary world of woe,

O happy to be deadl

For thou behind thee here didst leave on earth

A monument sublime, A home of learning, happiness and mirth

Untouched by hand of Time. This thy memorial better far than those

Which other Kings did raise ; This thy memorial, England's reddest Rose,

Thy glory and our praise. Thou hadst the treasure which by moth and rust

Cannot corrupted be ; While others' tombstones crumble into dust

We will remember thee.

TWO SONNETS.

I.

TOTA. G. L.

BRIGHT flowers of a thousand hues I twin'd, Watered by tears, yest're'en above thy door. Tears are the fruit that Love in travail bore, Sighs in the heart and anguish in the mind. And as I twined I said, " The twilight nears ; Lose not your blossom, till the evening dies, And when She passes forth, fall in suchwise To damp her head with my fast-dropping tears. Tomorrow I return ; but if, at night I should behold thee with faint footstep light Mocking me with thy shadowiness in a dream, Drunk with false pleasure, I shall not return. No longer for the living shall I yearn ; My comfort be delights that only seem !

II.

TO A NIGHTINGALE.

THOU drink'st the fairy dew within the glade,

Thou singest within the wood by night and day,

With fluttering wings thou sing'st a roundelay,

A woodland carol for thy pleasure made.

For me, my songs are other songs than thine,

Though I sing here, I sing in different wise ;

My song I veil about with plaintive sighs,

My soul with dropping tears I intertwine.

Thou sing'st for a short space : I sing for long :

The changing year re-echoes to my song.

My lady holds me in harsh servitude,

So, Philomel, or with my melody

(If Passion move thee) sing in harmony,

Or leave me lonely, weeping in the wood.

A PICTURE.

SHE sat within the dappling shade That flickered o'er the forest glade, The listening birches shadows made.

In that still place there was no stir, About her fell the hair of her Heavy with aloes and with myrrh.

A golden chain her waist confined, Closed were her eyes, as she were blind. Her robe was all with crimson lined,

With twisted cords about the hem,

Her wrists were twined with many a gem,

Her neck was like a lily stem.

About her feet a dragon slept, His head upon her lap she kept And while she guarded it, she wept.

Blind, anguished tears went dropping down Upon the dragon's glassy crown, Upon the margent of her gown.

Tall columbines grew 'mid the grass, Between them shadow-mice did pass, With soundless feet, pass and repass.

And, over all, the silence lay :

It seemed the evening of the day ;

It seemed the hour when all men pray.

So sate she still, this prison'd maid,

Within the lonely forest glade

Sate tending well the dragon's head.

Was she alive, and is she dead ?

TO CECILIA.

THY converse seems to me a garden close

Where thick together spring The pallent lily and the wine-dark rose, And everything of fragrancy that grows,

While argent voiced singers sing

From every leaf-hung tree Carols of faint and perfum'd loveliness, Intwin'd with everliving mournfulness,

In dappling greenery.

And so whene'er I speak with thee I seem

So to be walking in some garden close,

A happy, faint and fragrant waking dream

Mix'd with the purling of a hidden stream

Flowing along where purple iris grows.

AFTER THE FRENCH OF ESTIENNE DE LA BOETIE.

THE parching heat of the resplendent sun,

Warming the whole earth with its golden ray,

Has touched with gold the ripening ear of corn. But we have waited all to-day

For the still freshness of the evening time, Margaret and I.

The sun has set, and now we wend our way At random through the rustling of the trees ;

Before us Cupid strings his bow in play, And we two follow at our ease

Through the great silence of the starlit night, Margaret and I.

We are at peace with all. We do not care For King or royal court or rushing town ;

But if we tire of the fresh forest air, We seek the meadows low adown

In the quiet valleys where the cowslips grow, Margaret and I.

O Medoc solitary, wild and free,

Thou seemest ever perfect in my eyes ;

Thou knowest all our present ills ; in thee We'll live under thy clear blue skies

In peace, far distant from the world's wild waves, Margaret and I.

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FANCY.

I WALKED in the wood at evening When the dew was on every tree,

And I saw in the darkness a lady

Who looked from her casement on me.

And up to her tower of jacinth She drew me with eyes of flame :

And I was as one who slumbers, And knew not the way I came.

But down through a rift in the tree-tops A splinter of moonlight shone,

And I saw the eyes of that lady — I saw that her soul was gone.

ii

IN MEMORIAM.

**&•%

A DULL grey sky that hangs above,

A dull grey earth that sleeps beneath, A vast grey wall around, the clouds of death, Numbing my senses all. I cannot move :

My eyes are dim : and every sound Seems as the murmur of a far-off waterfall, That plunges down amid the sighing trees

Unseen, unknown : and all around The deathly stillness of that gloomy pall, That every joyous thought doth grimly seize And crush within the grip of cold Despair, Which lowering broods upon the stagnant air.

Nought there to see, and nought to feel

Save how the sword of misery Doth stab and stab again unceasingly : Nor aught the gaping wound can ever heal

For he is gone, for he is dead.

He died for home and freedom, but he died, he died And we shall see his well-belovSd face

No more : no more the well-known tread Shall hear ; no more shall haply sit beside The crackling fire and listen for a space To that dear voice ; nor through the woods at eve Shall roam and every thought of sadness leave.

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Shall we not mourn for one so dear ?

O God of battles, God of love,

Why dost Thou snatch to Thy bright realms above So swiftly those whose love we treasure here ?

For all our love doth seem in vain, When it at last a dwelling place secure doth find, If straightway by the hand of cruel Death

'Tis rudely crushed, and thrust away again. For though our strength doth fade, our eyes grow blind, The ghost of murdered love will ever breathe His whispered words of sorrow in the heart, Nor suffer sad sweet memory to part.

THOUGHTS.

O THOUGHTS, vain thoughts that ever wayward fly, Nor pause before the hallowed ground ye tread, But enter in to chase some vision dread Of wondrous loveliness : yet bye and bye

Ye must return to this poor world, and fall, and die. Then only for a space : ye flee Once more, when sweetest harmony

Floats on the air : once more your course is sped : Or when the scent of summer flowers With fragrance fills the sunlit bowers With roses decked, and marigold,

That nestle 'neath the spreading beeches old.

LINES ON HEARING BEETHOVEN'S "MOONLIGHT" SONATA.

I STOOD upon the heaven-aspiring height Of an aerial mountain, that had piled Its massive bluffs and precipices wild Into one towering peak : the waning light Dimly revealed in deathlike sleep, The rolling spurs below enrapt, and valleys deep.

Above me the vast clouds did slowly float In still array majestically gliding, Through which the radiant moon her course was

guiding

Onward from rift to rift, as one lone boat The long, long ocean swell doth breast, While the red sun sinks slow adown the fiery West.

And as I gazed upon that awful scene,

Deep wondrous thoughts within my heart grew fast, As if the mighty clouds therein had cast Their shadows dim : so heaven and earth between My spirit fluttered, and was filled With strange and lovely joy, that all my being thrilled.

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Yet soon my thoughts came back to me once more ; And with a sigh I rose, and turned away Down to the wooded slopes, that seemed to say, " Return, return ; thy heavenly dream is o'er." And so with light steps I descended, Happy, yet sad for that the glorious hour was ended.

And now the stars shone brighter : from the woods Astir with all their nightly revelry A myriad murmurs rose enchantingly : The last sweet fragrance stole from closing buds ; And all who through the drowsy day Had slept, came out beneath the cold bright moon to play.

So wonderingly I passed adown the hill, When suddenly reechoed through the night A peal of thunder, and the craggy height, Which late had been so calm, and clear, and still, Turning I saw all darkly clouded And in a curtain black of grey whirling mists enshrouded.

And here and there amid the gathering storm

The black and frowning crags stood grimly forth ; And the wind shrieked in fierce and furious wrath, While lightnings dazzling paths of fire did form.

So the great tempest raged, and passed : And through the thundering chasms at the last Rolled muttering o'er the hills one long, low dying blast.

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TO R. W., 1915.

HIGH over a wooded valley,

And over a river fair, Where childhood reigned unquestioned,

God's peace lay there.

In his soul in early manhood, Before he received his share

Of his dear country's burden, God's peace lay there.

In the land wherein he lieth,

Free from sorrow and from care,

'Neath Nature's verdant mantle : God's peace lies there !

DEATH.

O Death, thou uninvited guest, Yet best belov'd of those whose quest Is God's own peace and perfect rest — Why fear thee ?

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ON AN EARLY MORNING FUNERAL IN AMIENS CATHEDRAL.

IN the morning white they paced,

Bearing forth that holy thing, 'Neath the columns interlaced

Of the high Cathedral nave : While the solemn priests did sing,

And their music, wave on wave, Beat against the emblazoning

Of the vast concave.

Forth into the snowy way

Fragrant with the mist of night, By the timid primal ray

That sad burthen they have borne : And the glimmering tapers' light

Battles with the infant morn, But the burthen seems more white

Than the white of dawn.

BEGGARS IN LYONESSE.

I.

THE beauty of spring lilies

Is fine and white and gold ; Waving daffodilies

Have been sung of old ; Blood and snow of roses

Anyone can praise, Or poppy that uncloses

In the sun's hot rays.

Be the waving glory

Of thy tresses bright This poor singer's story,

And the virgin white Of thy bosom's heaving :

But thy lips and eyes They are past believing —

They are God's first lies.

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II.

GOD has not given me

Music to charm men's ears, I cannot offer thee

Ten thousand deathless years. Not on my wings of song

Down the great Future stream Shalt thou be borne along,

Idle is all my dream.

Thou on great eagle's wing

Wingest thy way through time ; All that all poets sing

Is thine uplifting rhyme. Poor thief, from their bright gold

I steal to crown thy head : Oh, rapture all untold

So to be garlanded.

God upon thee did shower

Bounteous, so rare a prize That it were in thy power

Me to immortalize. Thou hast no need of more :

Would he had given me Out of his golden store

Something to offer thee..

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LE SUICIDE.

O FOREST-BROWNED, blue water-pool

And glade scarce lit by sun : Ye have bewitched a wandering fool,

Sore evil have ye done.

Distraught he wandered seeking grace From God in Heaven : but ye

Did snatch him to your hiding-place And stole his soul from me.

Ye sent him forth at eventide

Nor man nor half a man, Save in the fleshly form outside

His soul was 'neath God's ban.

Ye thrust him forth, ye bade him, " Walk In freedom through the earth."

And lo ! a living grave I stalk, Awaiting my new birth.

For death alone my cruel pangs (Death is new birth) can heal.

In life is godless weariness, In death is god-sent weal.

O forest-browned, blue water-pool,

O glade that 'scap'st the sun, Ye have betrayed a wandering fool,

Foul murder have ye done.

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LINES.

WITHIN my narrow bed I lie,

And watch the hours go swiftly by

Reflected in a patch of sky.

At early morn it is a chink

Of softest delicatest pink,

Wherein cloud wavelets heave and sink.

At the third hour a gentle blue Delicious, moist with morning dew Tells me the world's awake anew.

But cruel noon with heartless glare Kills all the freshness in the air And cowes my gaze with angry stare.

Then as the hours press on, it seems The wind is fraught with wistful dreams ; Flow through the air voluptuous streams,

Scenting the earth, then pomped West

Marshals her royal lord to rest,

And lays his head in her soft breast.

Warmth dies. The sanctuary light Flickers and fades before the night. The world is curtained from my sight.

THE HOMECOMING.

FROM the depth of the dreamy vale, from the height of

the topmost mount,

Swift as leaves in the gale, numberless (who could count ?) A thousand thousand shades o'er the starlight country

glide, As the lampdd evening fades, and day is stripped of his

pride.

Ask of them whither they go, ask of them whence are they

bound,

Never a glance will show, never an answering sound ; Only a passing breeze will echo a voice full low In and among the trees, " Homewards ever we go."

THE HOMECOMING: A Second interpretation.

SEE ! across the angry sky How God's messenger doth fly, Michael with the sword of flame ; (Christ preserve our souls from shame !)

How the firmament is red : Restless seas give up their dead : Corse uplifts his withered frame : (Christ preserve our souls from shame !)

This the day of awful fame:

(Christ preserve our souls from shame !)

Speak, O dweller on the Throne,

Is our home Thine own, Thine own ?

IN MEMORIAM.

WHEN Christ took flesh and blood, and in them wrapped The glory of His high Divinity, And, from His place within the Trinity,

Came to a world in sinful meshes trapped

And cut them loose, men gave Him then a crown Wrought of rich thorns, yet so He loved it well, Dear symbol of His victory over Hell

For which alone to earth He was come down.

And later He ascended ; still mankind

Thought it was right that they should wreathe His brow

With a bright circlet : yet not thorny now They wrought it, but from out its gold-work shined

Diamond and pearl, sapphire and sardonyx, Jacinth and opal, glimmering emerault Set in massed gold, gems without taint or fault.

" What circlet this or who therein did fix

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So wondrous gems, such wealth of yellow gold ? " The Spirit saith : " O loved of Christ, this crown Is His dear Church ; these gems of high renown,

Which thy dull eyes of earth can scarce behold,

His saints in glory : She whom thou dost seek,

Though new her place, yet brightly here doth gleam. Bend low thy knees in worship : else the theme

Too high shall be : Worship or dare not speak."

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LITERARY FANCIES.

ONE.

O, I WOULD have a ballad old, With my love mured up in a baron's hold,

And I so gay to steal her away, And crown her my queen with a crown of gold.

And merrymen singing a roundelay.

TWO.

O. I WOULD have some rhymster's feat With many a play and a quaint conceit,

And I so fine to pass round the wine With a jest so pat and a quip so neat,

Till all should swear there be none like mine.

THREE.

O, I WOULD have a playbook rare

And none of your rhymes and your coarser fare,

But sitting alone in state on my throne, To hold my court, and rule with care,

And have all Christendom for my own.

FOUR.

O, I WOULD have a fairy tale And queen it all in a shady vale.

And I myself, with a page-boy elf, To witch the wicked and turn them pale

And richen the poor with their ill-gained pelf.

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SUMMER.

I SAW Summer dancing in the sunlight,

And the little breezes laughing in her hair ;

Tall as a goddess with the scent of flowers Straying all around her — O, but she was fair '

Slender her neck was, and white as any lily,

Ruddy her lips were, and fit to shame a rose ;

And all the glory, and the joy of living,

Laughed in the grace that only summer knows.

Then there came Autumn sombrely apparelled, Chasing the golden Summer from her play ;

Now all is dreary, and my world is darkened, Summer, Summer dearest, since thou'rt fled away.

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MY HOME.

THE house that I'd have would be in the hollow That made a dimple on some mountain's cheek,

Where, up above me, racing winds would follow Winds, in a boist'rous game of hide-and-seek.

There'd be my home, and fir trees would surround it, Standing on guard there, black, and bleak, and bare ;

There'd" be a garden, and a wall around it, And all my favourite flowers would be there.

There would I live, as far from the commotion Of city life, and of the crowded street,

As I should be in desert or mid-ocean, Nor heed the noise of ever-hurrying feet.

REQUIESCAM.

LET me lie in peace at last, When the whirl of life is past, On Thy mercy, Lord, be cast : For this I pray.

More than this I do not crave, Nor a place among the brave, But at night to find my grave Until the Day.

NEC QUAE PRAETERIT, HORA REDIRE POTEST.

YET another day is past,

Darkness comes again ; Grant it may not be my last :

It was spent in vain.

BEATUS ILLE.

A LITTLE garden in a town : A pergola which shivers

When the trains go by : A spacious park whose lawns slope down To views of silent rivers Or of hillsides high.

Happy may be the lord

Who on his terrace seat reposes :

But blind and wretched if he mocks, As he gazes on his lands so broad, At a quarter-acre full of roses And August holly-hocks.

33

THE PRISONER.

BLIND are my eyes that darkness grope, And deaf the ears I strain to hear,

And every step without, a hope, And every little noise a fear, And yet she cannot but be near.

Light will she come, who nothing fears, But they with heavy tread, and slow,

And every voice without is hers, And every step, the step I know, Ah God ! if it should not be so !

I feel the clammy wall, and dank,

I feel the chains; my wrists are bound

I dare not move me lest they clank, And senseless terror clings me round, I clutch my senses lest thy swound.

I feel the sun is sinking low : O day, that I have never seen,

You fade without. She cannot know, Tis best that she live on, a queen, Careless as I had never been.

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LIFE.

LIFE is a picture-book of many pages, And on each page there is a picture set

By different actors played on different stages Scenes worthy to remember or forget.

There is a single figure running through it,

With just your face, the servant of your brain

'Tis yours to guide ; be careful how you do it : You cannot read the book of life again.

35

VALE.

0 MOTHER, I go forth to see

The old things of the world, and new, And all that you have made of me, And all that I have made of you

1 take to prove my fealty, And pay you honour due.

You are immortal as your sons Immortal are ; they owed to you

The seed of higher things that once You sowed in soil so new,

A tale that he may read, who runs, Of all they found to do.

What though my labour feeble seems In thee : forth go I, to make known,

If falsely fair my future gleams.

And all those hopes were hopes alone,

And all those dreams were only dreams, Which first you gave me for my own.

You, that have cast your lot in me, And me upon the waters face,

If aught I own of loyalty,

Shall find me after many days,

Striving with all my best to be Worthy of all your love and grace.

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